Witness
by Goldenrod
Summary: Nigel's life takes a potentially dangerous turn after witnessing a murder.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own 'Crossing Jordan'. If I did, the series wouldn't have ended in the cliffhanger it did.

* * *

It was a clear, crisp fall night and the stars were out doing their dance in the dark blue sky. Of course, with all of the city lights in a place like Boston, one would barely be able to enjoy the nightly spectacle to its full extent, if at all. However, some people, like Nigel Townsend, tried nonetheless. He had just stepped out from one of the city's local bars when he decided on a whim to glance up and admire what he could of the celestial lights. 'Lovely night,' he thought to himself. Then, he made his way to his motorcycle, which he had to park across the street. As he grabbed his helmet and got out his keys, he heard something in a nearby alley, something that sounded like someone grunting in pain. Deciding to investigate, he peeked around the corner and saw a gang of five men beating a lone man. They were talking, but Nigel couldn't make out very much for their voices were low, as if they wanted their victim to hear them, but they didn't want their voices echoing off the walls. As much as he wanted to go in and help the guy, Nigel knew there was no way he could handle those men all by himself; that would be suicide. So, he reached his hand into his pocket to grab his cell phone to call for help. However, that idea was immediately scratched when a loud bang resonated in the alley. Nigel quietly gasped and his eyes widened when the man fell to the ground—and didn't move. That was when he noticed that one of the men had a gun. Realizing how dangerous the situation really was, and noticing that one of the men was beginning to look his way, he ran, started his motorcycle, and tore off into the street as fast as he could. He didn't go very far, however, and drove into a parking garage. Somehow, his criminologist nature kicked in and told him not to abandon the crime scene; he had to go back. And so, after breathing a few deep breaths to gather up his nerves, he exited the garage and, begrudgingly, headed towards the alley a different way.

* * *

Five minutes later, he had returned and there was already a small police squad securing the scene and talking to people. 'Boy, they work fast,' Nigel thought to himself.

"Nigel!" a voice called.

It was Woody, who was waving him down. "What is it?" Nigel asked.

"Apparently a shooting," Woody answered. "Happened a few minutes ago. From what I saw before I let the night boys take over, it looks like the victim was shot through the chest at pointblank range. Unfortunately, even though we have a lot of people, myself included, who heard the shot, nobody seems to have seen anything."

"Actually, Woody, that's not true."

"What do mean?"

Nigel suddenly felt the words get caught in his throat, the memory of what he just saw still fresh and Woody's confirmation of the man's death echoing in his mind. "Nigel?" Woody asked, a little concerned about his friend's complexion.

Nigel forced himself to speak, "Woody, I . . . I-I saw what happened."

"What?"

"I was here earlier. I'm a witness."

"Why weren't you here, then?"

"I couldn't stay, Woody. If I did, they would've killed me, too."

A short pause followed as Woody scratched his head. "Did they see you?"

"No, I don't think so," Nigel answered. "I managed to get away pretty quick. Woody, I'm sorry I didn't stay put; I would have, but -"

"It's ok Nigel, you had to get of here, but you're going to have to give your statement to one of the officers here since I'm off-duty."

"I know," Nigel nodded in response as he combed his fingers through his hair, still feeling a little shaken.

Woody called over a well-built black policeman and directed him to Nigel. "Sorry, Nige, but I have to get going," Woody said as he clapped the Brit's shoulder. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Yeah, see you, Woody," Nigel nodded.

The officer took out a pencil and notepad, "Ok, tell me what happened, every possible detail you can remember."

"I had left the bar about 9:00 p.m. and was walking across the street to my bike. I was about to get on when I heard noises in the alley."

"What kind of noises?"

"Grunts, like the kind one makes when he's hurt. I decided to see what was going on. The man was being beaten by a group of five other men."

"Did you call out to them or anything?"

"No, but now I sure wish I did. Maybe then realizing they had a witness would've scared them off and he would still be alive."

The officer looked Nigel in the eye, "Hey, man, this isn't your fault. There was nothing you could've done without also getting yourself killed. Anyway, go on."

"Not much else after that," Nigel continued. "I started reaching for my cell phone, but before I could call for help, the next thing I know I hear the gunshot and the man falls to the ground. One of the men looked like he was beginning to look my way and that's when I bolted."

The policeman let Nigel have a little pause as he finished writing down his statement. "Is that all you remember?" he asked. "Did you by chance hear or recognize any kind of clue as to what it could've been about?"

Nigel thought about it for a minute, "Now that you mention it, I did hear them talking. I couldn't make out the whole conversation, but I think I heard something about money and a game."

The officer wrote that last note down and handed the notepad to Nigel, "Just sign at the bottom." Nigel did so and gave the paper back to him. "Mr. Townsend, would you say you got a very good look at all of these men?" asked the policeman. When Nigel confirmed the assumption, he continued, "Would you be willing to consult with a sketch artist?" Nigel agreed, and the policeman led the way.

* * *

About an hour later, Nigel was finally back in his apartment, psychologically drained and physically exhausted. As he prepared for bed, the past few hours kept flashing past his mind's eye. It wasn't just witnessing a murder, someone's death; it was the whole ordeal of having to live through it again for the police. Giving his statement and consulting with the sketch artist was bad enough, then he was asked to submit a DNA sample. They explained, and thankfully very civilly, that even if it was for a little bit, one would naturally think it very suspicious that Nigel fled the scene of a crime. Therefore, if nothing came up between the man and Nigel, he would be eliminated as a suspect. Finally, he laid down on his back on his bed, but something in the back of his mind told him that after what just happened, sleep wasn't going to come easy.

* * *

The next morning, at the Medical Examiner's Office, Jordan reported in for work. After receiving her assignments from Garret, she headed straight to the morgue. On the way she bumped into Nigel. "Hey, Nige," she greeted, but the man didn't seem to hear or notice. Trying again, she tapped his shoulder, "Good morning, Nigel."

"Oh, morning, Jordan," he replied before covering his mouth for a yawn.

"Are you ok?" Jordan asked.

"Didn't get much sleep last night, that's all," Nigel answered, which was pretty much true; after last night's events he had a hard time relaxing enough to actually fall asleep, despite how beat he was.

"Well, that's what you get for drinking into the wee hours of the night."

"For your information, love, my last drink was at 8:15. And, you should be one to talk about staying up until it's practically the next day."

The two shared a laugh, with Jordan admitting, "Touché," as they entered the morgue.

As his colleague grabbed hold of a table, one of the bodies caught Nigel's eye and he froze. It was the man from the night before, the one he saw get killed. Against his will, the man's death played itself again in his head. Suddenly, he became aware that Jordan was calling his name.

"Uh, what?" he asked stupidly.

"Nige, are you sure you're ok?" asked Jordan with a concerned frown.

"Um . . . yeah, I, uh, I just n-need to get to work," he stammered, and he nearly bolted out through the doors, leaving a rather confused Jordan in his wake.

As he quickly walked down the hall towards the lab, Nigel let out of a sigh of relief; the truth was he wasn't ready to tell Jordan, or anyone else, of the murder he witnessed and he wanted to get out of there before she started asking more questions. He just happened to pass the break room when he heard a news report on the TV, the mention of a murder the night before catching his ear. "Late last night, this alleyway was the scene of a cold-blooded murder. Police responded to the scene after receiving several 911 calls reporting the sound of a gunshot. Though the victim is described as a thirty-six year old Caucasian man, police are, at this point, not disclosing the identity of the victim." When the news moved onto something else, Nigel continued on his way to the lab, hoping, praying, that work would keep his mind off of the man and what happened. Reaching his destination, he was about to start when there was a knock on the door. It was Garret.

"Are you doing alright, Nigel?" he asked.

"Fine, I'm fine," Nigel fibbed. "Why do you ask?"

Garret stepped in, closing the door behind him, a sign that whatever was going on he wanted to discuss in private. "Woody told me what happened last night," Garret answered. "About you witnessing that murder." For a moment, Nigel blanched and his smile faded.

"Who else knows?"

"Just me. I asked Woody not to tell anyone else."

The Chief Medical Examiner placed a gentle hold on the Brit's shoulder. He could feel the tenseness in the muscles. "Nigel, if you want, you can take the next few days off if you need too."

"Thanks, Dr. Macey, but I think I can handle it," said Nigel. "I'm hoping that work will help distract me enough to get through the day."

"Alright, but if you need a break, don't be afraid to ask," Garret said, and he turned to leave. Just as he grabbed the doorknob, he suddenly said, "Flint Kingswell."

"Excuse me," Nigel asked, perplexed.

"The man's name was Flint Kingswell, in case you were wondering. His family's already been notified and they are on their way."

Once Garret walked out the door, Nigel did his best to get his seething under control and get busy.

* * *

An hour later, Lily stood beside a young woman who earlier identified herself as the man's sister. When she gave the ok, Jordan opened the drawer to reveal him. The visiting woman nodded with a deflated expression.

"I'm very sorry, Ms. Kingswell," Jordan said sympathetically.

"He's the man that was on the morning news, isn't he? The one that was killed in an alley last night," Ms. Kingswell asked the two women. Lily nodded. "You want to know what's kind of funny? When I heard that news report, he was the first person that came to my mind as to who it was."

Just then, Woody popped his head in. "Ms. Kingswell, I'm Detective Hoyt. I just wanted to let you know, when you're ready, I need to ask you some questions about your brother, Flint."

"Ok," the woman nodded.

"Do you want some time alone?" Lily asked.

After giving it some thought, Ms. Kingswell nodded and Lily and Jordan left the room. Lily stole a peek through the window to see Ms. Kingswell seemingly start to sob a little as she grasped her late brother's hand.

* * *

Later in the day, Woody was on his way out when he noticed something in his peripheral vision. Nigel was waving him down. Letting himself in, he asked, "How are you holding up?"

"Fine, spectacular. Though I would've really appreciated it if you hadn't told someone else about last night without consulting me first," Nigel answered testily.

Woody didn't need three guesses to know what he was speaking of.

"Just what exactly was the idea, Woodrow?"

"I'm sorry, Nige. I guess I figured you were going to tell Garret anyway."

"Then why didn't you let me?"

Woody sighed; Nigel did have a point. "Nigel, I really am sorry." Nigel, though, just changed the subject without ever taking his eyes off his computer screen.

"I heard you questioned the man's sister."

"Yeah, she wasn't able to tell me as much as I would've liked, but, after a little more digging, she may have pointed us closer to a motive. Turns out Kingswell had a bit of a gambling problem; didn't know when to stop due to believing that his next shot could be the jackpot he'd been waiting for. She tried to get him to quit while he was ahead, but when he wouldn't listen she gave up and they hadn't been in contact very much for the last three years."

"He never even begged her for money?"

"Nope."

"Well, guess either the poor bloke was too optimistic for his own good, or he still had some dignity after all."

"Well, I'm going to head back to the station, see if anybody's found anything on those guys you saw. I'll catch you later."

Woody clapped Nigel on the back and left, but frowned at how his friend didn't seem to even register his departure.

* * *

At the station, Woody flipped through a file the officer that Nigel talked to handed to him. Turned out they were able to identify the suspects, and it wasn't good. All of the men were wanted on illegal gambling and murder charges; they were bad news. Unfortunately, they were no closer to finding them than when they started; there were no finger or shoeprints, the tire tracks that were found were too smudged up from other tracks, and no one, not even Nigel got a look at the getaway vehicle, let alone its license plate. For the time being, they had come to a dead end. 'At least we have their faces,' he thought to himself. 'With the media and all, there's no way they'll be able to go anywhere without exposing themselves.'

Everyone figured with their faces all over the place, at least one of the suspects would be in custody within a matter of hours. But, those hours turned into days, which soon turned into weeks. Two and in a half weeks had passed, and there hadn't been hair or sign of them anywhere. Everyone guessed that they must've skipped town, letting Nigel breathe easier. Even though there was no way they could've known who he was, he still felt himself going on alert whenever he went outside the first few days out of fear that the men would pounce.

The police finally got a hot tip about the men's whereabouts—an apartment building in downtown Boston. Woody could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins as he grabbed hold of his firearm and prepared himself to rush in as soon as the landlord unlocked the door. One second they were flattened against the wall, the next they were rushing in through the door and searching the place. Unfortunately, it appeared that they were too late; the place was empty. Woody released a sigh of disgust when his colleagues confirmed that the place was clear. However, as he searched for clues, he found a used paper pad that showed in the light of the sun that there were etchings on it, as if whatever was written on the previous sheet the indentations got imprinted onto the next one. 'Hopefully this can tell something useful,' he thought, bagging the evidence. Once all possible evidence was bagged and prints and photos were taken, the apartment was cleared out and it was taken to the local crime lab. Unfortunately, all Woody could do was wait for the results, and he asked them to call him once they were available.

* * *

The hours went by and Woody still hadn't received the expected call. 'How long can it possibly take to figure out what the etchings say?' he said to himself. He waited fifteen more minutes and had decided to try and call them when his cell phone rang. "Hoyt," he answered. It was the crime lab. They had the results of what was on the writing pad sheet. "Great, what did it say?" he asked. His smile drooped to a concerned frown when they told him as he wrote it down. After thanking them and hanging up, he quickly got out his address book and looked up an address he recognized to compare it to the one the crime lab gave him. It was a match, and one of those 'oh, crap' moments. Like a shot, Woody grabbed his coat and rushed into his car. As he drove, he dialed on his cell phone, hoping it wasn't too late.

* * *

Meanwhile, Nigel was at his apartment, trying to decide what sounded good for dinner when his cell started ringing. "Townsend," he answered.

"Nigel, it's Woody," a familiar voice said on the other end. "Where are you?"

"At home. Why?"

"Get out of there. Find somewhere else to stay for a while."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Turns out we were wrong about Kingswell's killers. Earlier today, I was at an apartment they lived in for a while and found a writing pad. The crime lab just called me and said that the etchings found on it were a license number and an address—your license number and address! They must've got your bike's number as you drove away and, through that, somehow managed to find your address. Nigel, they know who you are; they know where you live."

As Woody said that last line, Nigel just had enough time to feel like his heart stopped before he was suddenly tackled to the floor.

"Nigel? Nigel, are you there?" Woody inquired into his phone after hearing something that sounded like a thud. But, there was no response, only some scuffling sounds. "Nigel? Nigel, can you hear me?" he tried again. He thought he heard Nigel's voice shout his name, but he lost connection with the phone. 'Oh, no. Please no,' he thought to himself as he hung up and tried to call Nigel's home phone. Unfortunately, a recorded operator's voice said that the line was disconnected. Stomach tightening uncomfortably, Woody got on his radio and called for back-up at Nigel's residence. Dispatch confirmed Woody's request and spread the word through the radio while he put on his siren and zoomed through traffic.

* * *

At his apartment, Nigel wrestled against one of his assailants. After one of them brought him down, causing him to lose his grip on his cell, he struggled to get a hold of it and called out to his friend on the other end. But a foot crushed it before he could reach it. Now he was on his back, his hands pinned to the floor, with not one but _two_ men above—men he recognized from that night. He shouted for help, but didn't get more than one yell out before the other man covered his mouth and nose with a cloth. The Brit fought to get it off for a few seconds before realizing the gag had a sweet aroma to it. 'Chloroform!' his forensic investigator instincts screamed; they were trying to drug him. The realization made him desperately thrash about even harder while trying not to breathe in any more of the chemical. Unfortunately, it was all ready too late; Nigel could feel the chloroform taking effect. He tried to fight off the drowsiness that was starting to blur his vision, tried to hold on until the police arrived, but it was a losing battle. His limbs, his body started to feel like it was made of lead. His movements were quickly becoming sluggish and non-responsive. Try as he might, his eyes got droopier and droopier until he just couldn't keep them open any longer.

"I think he's finally under, man," said the man on top of Nigel when his eyes closed and he stopped struggling.

His partner removed the gag and softly slapped Nigel's face. Nigel didn't respond as his head lobbed from side to side. Then, the man pressed an index and middle finger to his neck. "It worked," he reported, feeling a pulse. "Let's get out of here." The two men hoisted Nigel up by his shoulders and legs and carried him to the window. Carefully, they executed the tricky business of transporting the tall man out the window and down the fire escape. Finally, they made it to the last level of railing before reaching the ground, where a white van and the rest of their number were waiting. They lowered Nigel down to two of their compatriots, who loaded him into the van. Once they were all inside, the second tapped the driver's seat, "Go, now!" And with that, the van disappeared into the night.

* * *

Minutes later, sirens wailed as police cruisers drove up and parked in front of the apartment complex. Woody led them up to Nigel's door, praying real hard that they got there in time. Adrenaline pumping, he kicked the door so hard it nearly flew off of its hinges. He and the officers filed in and instantly began going through the residence, guns drawn. He noticed what appeared to be pieces of a cell phone and that the home line was unplugged, explaining why he couldn't reach Nigel through it. Seeing that the living room was empty, Woody felt the tightening in his stomach get worse. 'Calm down, Woody,' he said to himself. 'Maybe someone will find something in the other rooms.' However, that hope slowly began to fade with each announcement that there was nothing in any of them. When the last room was cleared, Woody could've sworn he just received the nastiest sucker punch to the gut; they were already too late. After giving the order, he and the officers began collecting any evidence they could find or anything that looked out of place.


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry I took a while guys. I had to go back and do a little more research.

Disclaimer: Once more, I don't own any of the characters here except the kidnappers (and Kingswell from before).

* * *

Meanwhile, in downtown was an industrial area with warehouses. Debris of all sorts littered the property, the structures had cracked concrete and were unkempt, and layers of dust stuck to everything. It was here in one of the abandoned buildings that the white van pulled in. Upon parking, two men half dragged a half awake Nigel out of the vehicle and tied him to a chair. Somewhat aware of what was happening, the Brit tried to shake off the grogginess and slight nausea and fight back, but with his reflexes still lethargic, his efforts were futile. He grunted as the rope around his wrists was tightened, his hands instinctively forming fists. While someone tied a bandana firmly over his mouth, two other men knelt on either side of him and restrained his legs to the chairs.

"Is that really necessary, man," one of the men asked.

"Just want to make sure that there's absolutely no way of him getting loose," one of the men by him explained. Once Nigel was secure, the same man took out a handgun and held it to the forensic investigator's head as he looked him right in the eye. Nigel looked nervously between the gun and the man in front of him. "Relax, you're not going to die just yet . . . at least, that's the plan," the man said in a calm, level voice. "However, if you scream, try to alert anybody, or otherwise give us any trouble, your brains get blown out. Are we clear?" Nigel nodded an affirmative and the man put away the gun in his coat pocket. He turned to his group, "Alright boys, get some sleep. It's been a long night." His cohorts obliged and walked to the other side of the room, leaving Nigel saying a silent prayer for his friends to find him.

* * *

The hours passed into the next morning, and the Medical Examiner's Office was in a frenzy. When Jordan and the others were informed by Woody of the other night's events, their first order of business became to go through all of the collected evidence to try to figure out as soon as possible where Nigel could be now. The clock was literally ticking, and what killed them the most was not having any idea of whether their friend and co-worker was still alive or already dead. "I don't think they killed him, at least not yet," Woody conferred. "They know we've been keeping an eye out for them for the past several weeks already for Kingswell's murder. They don't need to add another body to the count so soon. My bet is that they're going to keep him hidden away somewhere and hole up again for a while, until they feel safe enough to . . ." He couldn't bring himself to finish his thought after that. Though everybody agreed with him, they still worked at a fevered pace like Nigel's life still depended on it—which, in fact, it did.

* * *

At the warehouse, Nigel felt himself coming around again. Funny, he didn't remember falling asleep. 'I must've dozed off,' he thought to himself. The sudden sound of footsteps caught his ears. A lone Caucasian man walked into his range of vision and grabbed his gun.

As if suddenly realizing that Nigel was watching him, he said, "I'm your guard, so no funny stuff." Then, he left.

'If he's guarding me, that must mean the rest of the gang's not here,' Nigel said to himself. 'So then, where are they?'

Noticing the sunlight through the windows and the angle of the rays, he surmised that it was morning; the others must've left to get something to eat. With no one around at the moment, he wiggled a bit to see if he could somehow free himself. Unfortunately, the bonds were unyielding. Hearing the man coming back, he halted his efforts. His guard took a seat near him and began reading a magazine.

About a half an hour later, the other men returned. "What kept you guys? I'm starving," Nigel's guard asked.

"We would have been here sooner if someone hadn't gone and decided to disappear just so he could hook up with a girl," one answered, eyeing a comrade as he handed the guard a paper bag. The leader glanced at Nigel.

"Any problems?"

"Nope."

"Good."

"I personally don't see why we have to go through the trouble of keeping him hostage," said a red-head. "I mean, why don't we just kill him, be done with it, and split to Canada?"

"We've been through this before, Randy," said the leader. "The cops are looking for him, looking for us. Heck, they know it was us who took him. The city's steaming with them; we can barely go out onto the streets to do something as simple as getting a dozen doughnuts. On top of that, with how things are now, we won't be able to take care of the evidence and get away in time. If we wait until the heat cools off, it'll be easier to take care of him and scramble before the cops even realize we're gone."

With that, the gang followed the man out of room, but not before Nigel's stomach let out a quiet grumble, which caught one black man's momentary attention.

* * *

That night, the men left Nigel alone in the warehouse, aside from the one left to guard him. Again, he tried to get loose, but couldn't move. He stopped upon hearing the man's approach. It was the same man who spared him a glance earlier that day. His nose caught the aroma of chicken and rightfully so because the man was carrying a small KFC box. Grabbing a spare chair, his guard sat in front of him. "If I take off the gag, you promise not to yell?" he asked. Nigel nodded and the man pulled down the bandana. "I didn't know which part you liked best, so I tried to get a little bit of everything," he offered, letting Nigel have a look inside the box. The scientist, however, was skeptical.

"So, what's the deal? You have me pick out the piece and you attempt to torture me by reminding me how hungry I am by eating it yourself in front of me?"

"Hey, man, the way I see it, just because we kidnapped you, doesn't we can't be civil about it. So, which piece do you want?"

Nigel, deciding to give the man the benefit of the doubt, chose a thigh. The man picked one, along with a leg for himself, and held it to Nigel's mouth. Nigel gratefully bit off a chunk of the meat. "I don't suppose it would be too much to ask to have my hands untied in order to make this easier, would it?" he asked, trying to hide the hope that swelled in his chest.

"Sorry, man, but I'm already pushing my luck by taking off the bandana and feeding you at all," the man answered.

Nigel reluctantly nodded, understanding his point.

"What's your name?"

"Lucas. Lucas Collins. And that's my real name."

"I'm Nigel. Nigel Townsend."

"I know."

Nigel gave Lucas an odd look.

"Jeff, our headman, managed to get your bike's license number as you drove off, then had Herb, our computer geek, hack into the DMV's files to find out who you are and your address. That's how we found you."

As the night wore on, Nigel and Lucas continued their friendly, albeit a little awkward, conversation, both sharing a bit about their lives. This was how Nigel found out how Lucas got involved with Jeff and his group. After he fell under some hard times, Lucas got drawn into the gambling circuit, hoping to make it big. He actually turned out to do a decent job and, before he knew it, he'd earned a spot on Jeff's crew. However, what he found out too late was how that ended up making his life take a downward spiral into the hard and criminal life they led. When the plan for those who went too long without paying up their losses was to cut them out of the loop, Lucas thought that meant they wouldn't be allowed to participate in any more games until they chalked up the cash. He learned the hard way that Jeff and the others were not on the same wavelength as he was. Their idea of 'cutting someone out of the loop' was literally doing it, killing them. Seeing the man trying hard to hide the fact he was shaking, Nigel could tell that recounting his story was really distressing Lucas.

"Why don't you just leave?" he asked.

To his surprise, Lucas chuckled. "No way, man. Jeff would flay me alive and leave me to the birds if I just up and told him I wanted out. Besides, Jeff likes and trusts me; I've been working with him on different, non-violent means of dealing with people who don't pay up their losses."

"And what about Kingswell?"

Lucas' smile faded, "That . . . was one of the times I wasn't able to talk Jeff out of his way of doing things. I tried, man, I really did, but sometimes I can only do so much."

"Lucas, trust me, I've seen this many times, more than I have bothered to count. All it will take is one wrong move, or even you not 'paying up' your losses, and Jeff's going to kill you. I can already tell that you're not like the others, you're a decent man. You need to get out while you still can."

"I can't, I'm already in too deep. Furthermore, Jeff can be rough with us from time to time, I'll admit, but he needs all of us. He won't do anything."

Just then, a car motor from outside caught his attention. "They're back," said Lucas, quickly putting the gag back on. Jeff and the gang came in and, after Lucas confirmed that there had not been any trouble, they disappeared into an inner room—but not before Randy gave Nigel a leery-eyed look that gave him the shivers.

* * *

The next day, to Nigel's disappointment, Randy was left to watch him while the others left to run a quick errand. The man's trigger-happy eagerness scared Nigel. Plus, this mistake on Jeff's part would prove to be nearly costly. At one point, the red-head approached the scientist—finishing loading bullets in his gun. He cocked the hammer and aimed the firearm at Nigel's head. "Bye-bye," he said with a devilish smile. Nigel fearfully shut his eyes tight and his nostrils flared as he breathed rapidly through them.

"No man!" a voice shouted.

A shot rang out and Nigel swore he felt the bullet whoosh past his hair, barely missing his ear. He opened his eyes to find Lucas and another man, Herb, wrestling his would-be assassin on the ground. "What's going on here?" Jeff demanded as he trotted into the room.

"Randy was about to pull the trigger on him, Jeff," said Herb.

The leader gave the red-head a hard expression, looking very ticked off.

"Did I not make it clear enough to you that we are to wait until the time is right?"

"Maybe I don't want to wait until you say it's time."

Randy snatched back his gun and aimed it at Nigel. Another shot fired—and Randy collapsed to the ground, a bullet hole in his head. A pool of blood drained from the wound and his eyes were glassy and lifeless. "Now you don't have to," Jeff said casually, stowing away his own gun in his jacket. "Herb, get rid of the body. Lucas, grab some bleach and help me clean this up, will ya?" The two subordinates did as they were told, but Nigel noticed that Lucas was completely shocked by what just happened, like he couldn't believe what he witnessed.

* * *

Jordan and the others had worked like madmen over the last several hours to try and find some clue as to where Nigel could've been taken and what happened to him. Some gravel was recovered from the alleyway where the getaway vehicle was believed to have been parked and was revealed to be common in and around warehouses, notably the ones around downtown. Unfortunately, because there was no way of determining which warehouse in the vast district it could've come from, the team was back to square one, something Jordan absolutely abhorred. Despite Garret telling her to go home and get some rest, she kept trying different angles in hope that something would yield more clues to work with.

* * *

At the warehouse, Lucas was put in charge of watching Nigel again. The man had a haunted look on his face, like he'd seen a ghost. "I didn't think he'd do it, man," he said as much to himself as to Nigel. "True, Randy had a tendency to be a bit mouthy and trigger-happy, but he and Jeff were usually always on good terms."

"Guess Jeff decided, after that last stunt, he was more trouble than he was worth," Nigel mumbled.

Lucas lifted his head, giving Nigel a clear look at his terror-filled eyes. The man shifted his gaze at the spot on the floor where he and Jeff cleaned up the bloody evidence earlier. Then, after making sure that they were still alone, he looked Nigel square in the eye with something else on his mind—determined resolution—nervously ringing his hands as he did so. "You were right, Nige. I'm not cut out for this; this isn't what I am. Plus, after what happened tonight, I don't feel comfortable with Jeff anymore, and I didn't want to see you get killed in the first place. So, even though I know it'll mean jail time, I'm going to get you out of here. I'm going to go to the cops and tell them everything."

Nigel smiled proudly as he felt hope swell up in his chest again. "When you do, ask for a Detective Woody Hoyt. He's my friend, he'll listen to you," the Brit instructed. Lucas just nodded in confirmation when he heard voices in the back—Jeff and Herb had returned.

Quickly, he slipped the gag back on Nigel's mouth and got into the act that nothing out of the ordinary happened. The ringleader clapped a hand on Lucas' shoulder. "Why don't you go ahead and take a break, Lucas?" he suggested. "We'll take it from here." Lucas couldn't believe his luck anymore than Nigel could. He figured that he'd have to wait for at least a few hours before he'd get a chance to slip out.

"You sure, man?"

"Yeah, go ahead. Get some rest."

Lucas left, giving Nigel a quick wink, and made as if he was going to the room where they slept. However, once he was sure he out of eye and earshot, he headed for the exit. Since he couldn't risk taking the van, he came up with another plan for transportation. Carefully, he opened the door and walked fast to the street. Once he was about a block and a half from the warehouse, he kept his eyes peeled for a taxi. Spotting one, he hailed it down. "Police station, and step on it," he told the cabbie, and the yellow car sped off.

* * *

Several minutes later, Lucas arrived at his destination. He paid the cabbie and disembarked from the vehicle. As he gazed up at the placard for the building, he found himself filled with foreboding, knowing that once he stepped through those doors there was no turning back and his life as he knew it was as good as over. But then, thinking of Nigel, he swallowed the lump in his throat and his pride, stepped in, and approached the front desk.

"May I help you, sir?" the receptionist asked politely.

"I need to speak to a Detective Hoyt, please," Lucas answered. "It's urgent."

"I'll see if he's in," the woman replied, getting out of her chair and peeking in a nearby door.

"I'm sorry, sir, Detective Hoyt's busy right now."

"He's out?"

"No, he's working on a missing person's case."

"Nigel Townsend?"

"Yes."

"Please, I really need to talk to him. It's . . . it's about that case."

Again the woman slightly stepped in the door, this time giving him the ok to enter the office. "Hello, sir," Woody greeted with unrestrained hope in his voice as he reached out a hand. "I'm Detective Woody Hoyt." After inviting Lucas to take a seat, Woody got right to the point.

"The receptionist tells me you have some information on a missing person's case I'm involved in."

"Yes, sir, but before I start I want to ask for a couple of things from you."

"Ok."

"First, protection; I'm coming here at the risk of my own life. Second, please don't judge me too harshly before I've explained everything."

"I'll see what I can do on both accounts."

With that squared away, Lucas took a deep breath to try to calm himself and told Woody everything: his name, Kingswell's murder, Jeff and the others and his involvement with them, Nigel's kidnapping and status, Randy's murder, and, most importantly, the exact warehouse where Nigel and the remaining two of the crew could be found. An hour later, as Lucas signed his name on the notepad that Woody had him use to write his confession, the young detective was still reeling from everything that was happening. This man had to have known that, despite the good he'd done coming to the station, the only thing that would be waiting for him at the end of the tunnel was jail. A small part of him was screaming that this just wasn't right. After writing his signature, Lucas offered his hands to be cuffed. Woody read him his Miranda rights and handed him over to a waiting pair of fellow officers. "I'll put in a good word for you," he promised the man as he was led away. Lucas offered him a small smile of gratitude. Woody, meanwhile, instantly switched into game mode and requested a small S.W.A.T. team at the warehouse's address. That done, he got on his cell phone. "Jordan, it's Woody. We got a break, I know where Nigel is."

* * *

At the warehouse, Jeff and Herb were relaxing and taking it easy while Nigel prayed that, with Lucas on his way to the police station, help would arrive soon. He was more than ready for this nightmare to be over. Herb then left to get something from the van, leaving Jeff alone with him. Suddenly, Jeff thought he heard Herb's voice give a cry. "Everything alright out there, Herb?" he called. Silence was all that responded. "Herb, you there?" Jeff called again, but nothing. He got out of his chair and peeked into the sleeping room to get Lucas—only to find he wasn't there. Not liking this turn of events, he made sure his gun was loaded, and turned to Nigel with a forefinger to his lips, silently telling him to keep quiet. Weapon at the ready, he carefully made his way towards the van. The further he went, the more nervous he became; something was up, and he didn't like it. The shadows of the corridor didn't help his nerves much either. Finally, he reached the van, but everything looked empty. "Herb? Herb, you here?" he asked. Still nothing. He reached for the door, intending to look inside, when he was jumped from behind and tackled to the ground. The next thing he knew, his gun was wrenched from his grasp and five rifle barrels were pointed right at him.

In the main storage room, Nigel struggled to slip his hands free. But it just wasn't happening. Suddenly, the large main door into the room opened and he heard male and female voices.

"Nigel?"

"Nigel, where are you?"

'Woody and Jordan!' Nigel realized; they'd found him. But, with him positioned behind a huge post, they couldn't see him. So, he cried out as loud as he could through the bandana and squirmed like crazy, trying to make as much noise as possible.

Jordan and Woody were by his side in seconds. "Nigel, are you ok?" Jordan asked as she knelt down in front of him. Nigel vigorously nodded as Woody untied the gag.

"Boy, am I glad to see you guys," he said as his friends proceeded to undo his ropes.

"Believe us, Nigel, the feeling's mutual," Woody agreed.

* * *

The next few weeks seemed to go by in a blur. Jeff and Herb were indicted for their illegal gambling circuit, along with the murder of Kingswell and Randy and kidnapping and conspiracy to kill Nigel. As for Lucas, Woody managed to get him a hearing and a fair judge he knew to oversee it. When Nigel was asked to testify on his behalf, he accepted without hesitation. And so, when he was called to the stand, he told the judge how Lucas helped him and the police at the risk of his own life and cost of his freedom.

"So you see, your Honor, Mr. Collins is the reason why I'm alive right now," he closed.

"Thank you, Dr. Townsend. You may step down," the judge nodded. As he returned to his seat, Nigel couldn't help but steal a glance at Lucas, who looked back at him. "Does the defendant have anything to say before sentencing?" the judge asked.

"I do, your Honor," Lucas replied, a little nervous. The judge gave him permission to stand and he proceeded.

"Your Honor, I just want to say that I know what I let myself get involved in was wrong and I just wish that I was a stronger man so I wouldn't have been dragged into it. I'm truly sorry. I also hope that you'll take into account my . . . nobler actions, but I'm ready to accept whatever you decide, for better or for worse."

After his little speech, Lucas sat down. The judge then privately deliberated for a few minutes. When given the signal that he was ready, the bailiff announced for everyone to rise for the judge's decision.

"I have heard the testimonies, the pleas, for this man to be given some consideration because of what he did for Dr. Townsend, and at great personal risk, for his cohorts could've found him out and killed him. I'll admit I can understand that; however, as a servant of the law I've taken an oath to uphold it to the best of my ability. The fact remains that Mr. Collins was involved in an illegal gambling circuit in the state of Massachusetts, and let his colleagues kill at least one man that we know of, which one could argue makes him an accomplice."

The crowd's shared hopeful expression fell, fearing where this was going.

"Which is why I've decided the best course of action, for _all_ concerned, to be this: Mr. Collins will serve 15 years in a state penitentiary."

With a firm pound of his gavel, the judge declared the hearing adjourned and everyone felt that they could breathe a little easier; 15 years may still be a long time, but it was still considerably shorter than it could've been. As the bailiffs took Lucas away, Nigel asked them to wait a minute. Looking him straight in the eye and holding out his hand, he said, "Thank you."

Lucas looked at the hand, almost like he was unsure of what to think, and smiled, "No problem."

The two men shook hands.

* * *

AN: I tried to the best of my ability to find some info on Massachusetts sentencing practices, so I apologize if it doesn't seem very realistic.


End file.
